


everything & nothing

by lady__sansa_stark



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, BDSM, Dark, F/M, Rough Oral Sex, anal mention, death mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-21 07:57:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14911440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady__sansa_stark/pseuds/lady__sansa_stark
Summary: "Sansa tilted her head backwards at his words, her lips parted. She stared at him, not deigning to reply just yet, which was fine with Petyr. His gaze trailed around and around the curls of her hair, to her lips, her tongue, up (or maybe down) the line of her nose until he saw shadowed blue. And he gasped. Her eyes were horrible, too. Too hauntingly beautiful, darker and deeper than the oceans, and filled with at least as many horrors...."





	everything & nothing

**Author's Note:**

> Another (the last) sentence starter prompt from tumblr: "Is there a reason you're naked in my bed?"
> 
> [Requested by a lovely anon! This...didn't turn out as the ‘shameless smut’ I had been expecting to write (or even you were expecting, I’m sure). I really, really tried my best to keep plot out of this, honestly! But things got carried away, and, I eventually just went with it... I still hope you like it regardless!?
> 
> (note: v tired so this is unedited)]

 

           “Is there a reason you’re naked in my bed?”

           Not like Petyr was going to complain at her eagerness. He almost hadn’t wanted to announce himself, too delighted in the sight of her ivory skin contrasting against the deep emerald of his sheets. And her hair, gods he would fall victim to it every time. Fiery dusk, the end of the day, but marking the beginning of all the shadowy, awful things that preyed at night - tangled around her head like a halo. Petyr had stood there in the doorway, watching her for too many heartbeats to even fathom the minutes. Maybe it was hours, or days. 

           Sansa tilted her head backwards at his words, her lips parted. She stared at him, not deigning to reply just yet, which was fine with Petyr. His gaze trailed around and around the curls of her hair, to her lips, her tongue, up (or maybe down) the line of her nose until he saw shadowed blue. And he gasped. Her eyes were horrible, too. Too hauntingly beautiful, darker and deeper than the oceans, and filled with at least as many horrors.

           The sorts of things Sansa had seen, and she was barely eighteen. The sorts of things Petyr had accidentally shown her, and he  _ should have _ known better.

           Petyr pushed himself off the doorjamb, simultaneously not wanting to let go of the sight of her perfect body splayed out for him, and far too eager to make good use of it. His feet were quiet on the carpet; the only sound was Sansa’s breath. She was eager, too.

           “I asked you a question, sweetling.”

           This close, Petyr could practically  _ see  _ each of the memories swimming through her eyes, clouding what might have been a warm, sunny day. The memory of the threat lingering over the Stark household, never knowing  _ when _ or  _ where _ they should look. The memory of the  _ accident _ that sent one of her brothers flying full-speed through the windshield; they couldn’t tell which bone was skull and which was foot. The memory of her stepping into her parents’ bedroom to make sure the noise she heard wasn’t really anything, just a trick of her mind.

           That it wasn’t really the sound of their bodies falling on the ground, one after another,  _ fwump fwump _ . A one-two dance of death. And that it wasn’t really thick blood that soaked their corpses, empty eyes staring up at her. Cries caught in throats spilled open.

           She looked hauntingly beautiful, then, too, covered in it.

           Sansa licked her lips, leaving the tip caught between her teeth. “I wanted to apologize.”

           Petyr tilted his head at her. He was at the foot of the bed now, looking over her. He was careful not to let his shadow plague her skin; wanted to see the fading purples and yellows in all their painful glory. “For what?”

           She didn’t break contact as she said, so plain and simple, “For touching myself. Without your permission.”

           As if to give evidence, Sansa presented Petyr with her hand. There wasn’t the telltale sheen of her come, nor was there the smell of it. At least, not the heady scent of an orgasm; just the ever-present taste of citrus and desire that followed Sansa wherever she went. Petyr knew the former was because of him.

           He grabbed her hand and pressed it to his nose, inhaling, and - a-ha - there it was. Something urged him to taste her fingers, to take as much of that intoxicating taste into his mouth as he could. Which wasn’t to say he wouldn’t have his fill tonight; this was just the beginning.

           But Sansa  _ did things _ to him. Things that he honestly couldn’t explain, not even when blood was on his hands at the horrid botch of a job. There wasn’t a patch of skin clean enough to wipe away the sweat from his brow.

           Footsteps, quiet. Breathing, quieter.

           He saw her. Moonlight caressing her skin until she was whiter than her parents. Her hair, ablaze in white heat, coiling around her shoulders and down her slender frame. And her eyes, gods. The silvery light transformed cerulean eyes into the perfect mimicry of a ghost.

           Coming to collect Petyr for all the crimes he’d committed.

           And look what he did instead: collecting  _ her _ , for himself, for no other reason than the fact that his hands couldn’t tug the wire around the pale column of her throat. It beat against his skin - not a ghost, not with the way she shivered at his touched, or the fact that she didn’t even cry, scream, shout. 

           Sansa took the memory, swallowed it within her eyes, and followed Petyr back from the blood-stained halls of Winterfell.

           He pulled her slick fingers from his mouth, kissing the pads of her fingertips and leaving them there as he stared at her. Sansa’s chest was heaving, more from the fact that she knew what was coming. Petyr knew, and he would be a liar to say his cock wasn’t hard. It had been hard the moment he saw the light to his room on, with only the imaginings of her lying just as she was in her splendor. 

           “You know you’re not supposed to touch yourself, sweetling,” Petyr said into her fingers. He could feel her heartbeat thrumming away from such small contact.

           Sansa shifted her legs, and it was no accident Petyr had a clearer view of what lay between her thighs. He wasn’t ashamed to look - not when Sansa presented herself as such. And maybe she was trying to earn forgiveness for her sin. A little too late. “I know, Sir.”

           “Did you come?”

           He knew she hadn’t, not with the barest hint of her desire on her fingers. But Petyr loved the way filthy words sounded from her lips. As if her mouth - and her body - were made in the image of purity, innocence, everything right and good and just. 

           It was too addicting dragging her through sin.

           Sansa looked away for only a second before she answered. “No. Sir. I wanted to, after what you did to me this morning. But I knew better.”

           “Hmm,” Petyr hummed, letting go of her hand finally to lean in, resting on his fists on either side of her head. Sansa had nowhere else to look but up at him. Good. “Remind me, sweetling, what did I do to you this morning? It’s been so long, I can’t remember.”

           She licked her damn lips again, and it was an effort not to dip down and take her mouth. Not now. She needed to  _ earn _ that. “You woke me up and demanded I suck you off before you went to work.” A pause, in which Petyr prompted a silent  _ And? _ Sansa continued, “And you teased with my cunt, relentlessly, Sir. It hurt so much, after the punishment from the night before.” Petyr glanced across her skin at the smattering of color he left on her. “I wanted to come very badly, but you wouldn’t let me.”

           Oh, but she was missing the best part. Petyr fought and lost to the pulling at the corner of his mouth. “And did you like it? When I woke you up shoving my cock down your throat and a nice fat dildo in your pretty little cunt?”

           Her breathing stilled. The girl that Sansa had been when Petyr stole her away was there, so small and fragile, tucked away beneath the girl that Sansa was showing him. Hardly a flicker before Petyr lost sight of it. Sansa nodded. “Yes, Sir. Very much.”

           “Too bad you’ve disobeyed me. I would have made you orgasm first thing, especially with this lovely  _ show _ you’ve put on.”

           Sansa knew that, too. They both knew the ease with which Petyr could dote on her - with sweets; with new clothes and lingerie; with trips to the cinema and museums, holding hands and sharing an ice cream as though they were nothing more than a very affection father and daughter. It wasn’t lost on Petyr the  _ dreams _ Sansa had, that little girl of hers. Of a  _ normal _ life, with a  _ normal _ relationship to a man who was neither twice her age nor didn’t relish in making her cry.

           And he  _ wanted  _ to make her cry, every night. Wanted to see the tears that hadn’t shone in the moonlight. 

           Petyr moved to slip off his tie, watching with pleasure as Sansa’s gaze followed his motions. He dawdled, knowing half the fun was in the anticipation. And, oh, the endless fun they could have - and have had - with a strip of fabric. He wished he’d known Sansa would demand a punishment tonight; he would have come prepared.

           “Give me your arms and legs, sweetling.”

           Sansa did as she was told. She always did as she was told.  _ Except cry _ . That, Petyr had to urge out of her.

           A sound on par with the trill of his name as she came.

           He looped the tie around her wrists, then around her ankles, and managing a final loop and knot at the end to hold it all in place. 

           All was left for Sansa was her mouth - free to urge him on, or scream out, or moan - and her eyes - free to watch, in agony and desire as Petyr did exactly what he wanted, what she needed.

           Oh, and her cunt. 

           He ran a finger down the slit, admiring the shudder that spiked through Sansa’s body at the contact. Sansa thought it was painful  _ for her _ to wait so long for an orgasm, but she didn’t know the pain it was for Petyr to wait. Each day (and often times during his sleep, too) he  _ ached _ for her. Thoughts of taking her with his mouth and hands and cock, separately and all at once, and inside each of her holes. And then Sansa goes and  _ misbehaves _ \- on purpose! - so she can watch bruises blooming across her skin. A new spring each morning as they appeared.

           Not like Petyr hated punishing her, not when she deserved it.

           “Do you, sweetling?” he said, running his thumb up from her asshole to her clit, flicking against the nub hard enough until she gasped. She knew, too, that she had a long way to go. “Do you think you  _ deserve _ to come after you so blatantly disobeyed me?”

           Sansa flexed her fingers against her restraints. “No, Sir.”

           Up the backs of her thighs, her knees, until Petyr wrapped his hands around her bound ankles. He pushed them away just enough to look directly at her. “Then why did you do it, sweetling?”

           The same as always: “Because I want you to hurt me.”

           “You just have to  _ ask _ if you want pain. You know that, right?”

           She did. She had lots of years tormenting herself to know that. But it was always the same: “Yes, Sir. But it feels better when I earn it.”

           Petyr had to practically drag his gaze away, he’d nearly lost himself in the depths of her gaze. It wasn’t  _ just _ him that brought her to the point where she was  _ begging _ for hurt. Nor was it  _ just _ him that had her family torn apart - some, literally - save for her.

           And if his boss knew Sansa Stark was still alive? If his boss knew Sansa Stark was acting as one of his hitman’s  _ plaything _ , a young cunt to dive into after a long day of death...well, Petyr would make sure that never happened.

           He would hate to send his lovely ghost to an actual grave.

           Petyr flipped her around, pulling her body down the bed until her head was lolling off the side. He pushed against her bound legs with his hands as he smothered Sansa’s mouth with his clothed cock. He heard her gasp at the suddenness of his actions, and gasp for air, before she remembered her place. Sansa’s mouth was hot through the fabric, and he could feel the press of her tongue up and down whatever she could reach. Petyr rolled into her head, giving her less than enough time to breath before his body was up against her again.

           Petyr maneuvered his head through their arms. Leaning in to take one of her nipples in his mouth, biting down harder and harder until he heard Sansa moan. She loved it, and fuck, if he didn’t feel his cock growing against her mouth. His mouth found her other one, biting down even harder. Back and forth Petyr went, in time with his hips rolling against her. He felt her heart beating through her breasts - so fast, so afraid that maybe this time Petyr  _ would _ let her die.

           Enough of that charade. Petyr was fucking  _ hard  _ and he needed release before he did something he would actually regret. His hand snaked between his thighs and her mouth, barely giving her chance to breath - hot and sticky against his skin. 

           His cock freed, and her lips were already open. Petyr shoved past her lips, her teeth, jamming in as far and as fast as he could. Sansa gagged around him. Petyr felt her tongue trying to push out the intrusion; and at the same time, lap around him, urgining him in deeper. “You’re actually a dirty little thing, aren’t you sweetling?”

           Sansa couldn’t answer properly - not with his dick in her mouth - but she did by craning her neck to pull him in deeper.

           His hands were on her breasts again, not at all careful of leaving marks. If he was lucky, Petyr would find her pretty pink nipples ringed by his teeth in the morning. And he knew Sansa would love that, too.

           More. He needed to mark her more, remind Sansa who owned her - body, mind, heart. A sick sort of  _ love _ if there ever was one. And maybe (truly) it wasn’t love.  _ This _ couldn’t be love.

           Petyr wanted to hurt, and Sansa wanted to be hurt.

           It was a thing of convenience.

           “You better not be wet,” he said, trailing one hand up the plane of her stomach, weaving through her closed thighs before he found her cunt. She was wet, and hot, and aching for something more than what little friction could be found grinding her legs against each other. Good. Better to have her on the edge all night. “You  _ are _ .” Petyr  _ tsk _ ed, pronouncing each one with a thrust of his hips. There was spittle come out from the corners of her mouth, some of it trailing down her cheeks to mix with budding tears. Sansa kept her eyes squeezed tight. 

           Petyr continued, his voice too soft and lilting, at odds with how rough everything else was. “You like this, do you, Sansa?” His hand between her legs toyed with her clit, pinching and flicking until Sansa couldn’t help her body arcing off the bed. “You like getting your pretty mouth stuffed with my cock, don’t you?” She nodded; or, maybe she was just trying to keep the bile from pushing up her throat. 

           His hands didn’t stop, one on her breast and one against her clit. “And what about here, sweetling?” he asked, shoving in his middle finger deep into her cunt. Sansa moaned around his cock, and the vibration was almost enough to have him coming. “You like that, don’t you. Especially when it’s so full it hurts.”

           Another nod.

           “And,” Petyr was nearly lying down over her as he shoved his hand further between her thighs, circling her asshole. Gods, he was a fucking fool for not bringing lube. He felt his cock twitch at the thought alone of taking her ass. “Here. You  _ really _ liked it when I fucked you here, didn’t you?”

           He couldn’t hear Sansa against him, but he knew she was agreeing. With her mouth, or with her body. Sansa couldn’t deny the way it shook, or the fact that her cunt was wetter. 

           “Of course you do,” Petyr cooed, maneuvering both hands around the front of her thighs until his fingernails were digging into her ass. He pulled her into his thrusts, managed to get his cock in just a fraction deeper down her throat. “Because you’re a filthy fucking slut, Sansa. And we both know it.”

_ And you’re my filthy fucking slut _ .

           Petyr’s groan echoed low within his chest as he finally succumbed to his release.

           He pulled Sansa in as close as he could, feeling the indents his fingers were making in her skin. Warmth spread throughout his body, all the way to his toes which were curled in his shoes. His heart was going to explode - not least because this was the best orgasm he ever had (it was up there), but because when he finally pulled away enough to breathe and let Sansa breathe, he saw it.

           Tears.

           Streaked black from her mascara, clotted beneath her eyes and falling down around her cheekbones to be lost in the tangle of her hair.

           Petyr pulled himself free from Sansa’s mouth, helping her work her the muscles in her jaw. But he couldn’t keep his gaze from her eyes, from the mess around it. He was knelt down, hands on her face, and their heads were level with each other. Sansa staring at him upside down, her cheeks red and her lips swollen. She missed some come, falling up and down her chin. Petyr helped her out, swiping the errant need with his thumb and watching as she dutifully licked it clean.

           He smiled at her.

           They weren’t done. Petyr still had enough ideas to make good on, and there were far too few markings on her skin to call the night done. He stretched out his fingers, sore from the grip on her ass. And her ass would be sore, too, once turned her over and spanked it as red as her cheeks. Redder.

           “How was I, Sir?” Her voice was so sweet, even with a throat sore from dick and lined with come.

           Petyr brushed his thumb over her lip again, admiring the softness of her skin. “You were good, Sansa. Great.”

           She did her best to hide her own smile, but Petyr held her face firm. She had nowhere else to look. She couldn’t even wipe the mess off of her face - her hands neatly bound far away.

           “Do you think you’ve earned an orgasm now, sweetling?”

           Sansa pursed her lips (kissing his thumb, though involuntarily), before she answered. “Only if you think I’ve earned one, Sir.”

           “Good answer.”

           “Have I?”

           Petyr dropped his hand down to stroke through her hair, working out tangles as he went. Not ignoring her question, so much as keeping her hopes up. “No, sweetling, I don’t think you have.”

           She hid her disappointment well. “As you say, Sir.”

           Petyr gave her the kindness in lying her down on her side, letting her arms and legs rest. A pity if she couldn’t use her hands…

           On and on Petyr combed her hair, thick auburn tresses. In the right light, it was shifting blood through his fingers. Strands came away with each pass of his hands - blood not so damning as the fact that one Stark remained in the world. 

           And she was only here because she had nowhere else to go. No one else to turn to. Anyone would kill her on sight, unless they were deranged enough to have a bit of fun first. 

           And maybe - somewhere, deep deep down in the locked part of his heart, shriveled away after decades of disuse - Petyr felt guilty. For bringing her here, for making this sweet thing what she was: panting and bruising beneath his touch.

           His hands fisted her hair and pulled her neck back. Petyr leant in to trail his mouth over her lips, ghosting them, before he moved up her cheek. Up to her eyes, starting with one then moving to the other. Licking up every last bit of pain and suffering and hurt from her face.

           “Do they taste as good as my cunt, Sir?”

           He opened his eyes enough to see Sansa watching him. Slowly, Petyr trailed his mouth back down her cheek, her jaw, to her own lips. They parted for him, and there was something absolutely wicked about tasting his own desire from her tongue. 

           It was a soft kiss, one that surprised Petyr as much as it surprised Sansa. No biting, no pulling, no shoving his tongue down as far as he could. Just gentle exploration and soft pecks along her lower lip.

           “No, sweetling,” Petyr finally said, pulling his lips away just enough to whisper into her mouth. “They taste  _ better _ .”

_ Oh, sweetling, you don’t know how divine your tears taste. _


End file.
